Eight sides of irony,

but the paper doesn’t
fold enough to
off-the-cuff physics.

Standing vigilant against visions
that differ,
taking something divine and

democratic atrocity.

Ideological rigor mortis,
without the organ to beat
some life into this verbosity.

Her lips have gone blue
trying to be someone
you’d honestly want to know,
want to covet,

but, simply, too much is told.

Only half that I’m shown goes onto something tangible. The rest is unmanageable, too impractical to unite under a single banner, so ten thousand hammers act instead.

Octagon of ideals comes to a head, interlocking with the oxygen required to sustain them. An atom splits, another implodes.

Without cold steel to contain them,
true catharsis begins unfolding.

Seven sides and the eighth
you could not roll from the last,

Pandora’s physics escape
a jack-in-the
box prison,

this poem incinerated in the blast of self-righteous loathing.

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